


flying leap

by badtemperedchocolate



Category: Bon Appétit Test Kitchen (Web Series)
Genre: Brad had a lot of rando jobs, F/M, that's where this comes from, whitewater rafting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-14
Updated: 2020-05-14
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:20:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24188800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badtemperedchocolate/pseuds/badtemperedchocolate
Summary: Why would I jump off a perfectly good rock?
Relationships: Brad Leone & Claire Saffitz, Brad Leone/Claire Saffitz
Comments: 14
Kudos: 90





	flying leap

**Author's Note:**

> Je suis trash. 
> 
> As usual, this story is complete and total fiction. Not real, not meant to be real. Be cool. Keep all the trash here where it belongs, k?
> 
> As always, my eternal thanks to professortennant, who brought me into this fandom in the first place, and 40millionyears, who (somewhat) patiently listens to my whining and then makes all the most helpful suggestions a writer could ever want.

_Pennsylvania, 2008_

It’s a beautiful day for whitewater rafting.

Brad ducks out of the guides’ prep room, life vest in hand, and takes a quick look at the weather forecast. Sunny and breezy. It rained all night, so the water will be high. Big rapids today.

He shoves the last bite of toast into his mouth and heads up to the front desk. “Am I driving the bus today?”

‘The bus’ is a rickety, not-entirely-safe old school bus they use to truck everyone from the outfitters’ office down to the river. It’s an adventure in its own right. Might actually be more dangerous than the rafting.

“Yep.” Jared nods, scanning the paperwork. “Looks like there are only four rafts going out this morning, so just one trip down.”

“Gotcha.”

* * *

When he walks out to the rocky gravel of the outfitter’s parking lot and calls out “Okay, Raft Three! Raft Three! Over here!” Brad finds himself surrounded by six pretty, bright-eyed young women in shorts and tank tops.

Oh. _Hello_.

“Well, good morning, ladies.”

Now, this could be a mixed situation.

Bachelorette – and bachelor – parties have a terrible reputation at the outfitters. _Way_ too many stories of people who just couldn’t be bothered to stay sober long enough to pick up a paddle. Brad’s heard the veteran guides swap tales; rafting’s dangerous enough when you’re fully lucid, and there’s a strict alcohol policy there for a reason. And so when single-gender group of college-age people book a trip, everyone gets a little skittish.

But his raft today? They’re great.

The girls are apparently classmates from Harvard, just finished their junior year, determined to take time off for some fresh air and adventure before summer gets crazy. They pay attention when he explains the basics of forward paddle, back paddle, and how to turn the raft. They all clip on their life vests and helmets without complaining and cinch the straps tight.

And most importantly, they laugh at his jokes.

He rattles off the list of info – here’s the raft, here are the paddles, the river’s over there – and gets his group in line to join the other rafts on the water. “Any questions, ladies?”

There’s a long pause, and he holds his breath, but then the petite dark-haired one with the big eyes – what’s her name again? Carrie? – finally raises her hand. “Yeah, what’s your question?”

“What do we do if we fall out?”

“Oh, don’t you worry, Carrie.”

“It’s Claire.”

“Oh, sorry.” He winces. “ _Claire_. Don’t worry, that’s part of the lecture.”

She twitches an eyebrow up at him, and he could be imagining it, but is she smiling? He’s pretty sure she’s smiling.

* * *

As they drift down the first smooth stretch of water, Brad scans the raft, locking in names. Easy to start at his left hand and go clockwise, he finds. Ellie is a chatty, cheerful blonde who seems to know the English and Latin names of every single plant and flower they pass. Veronica, in front of her, is quieter, and she seems to enjoy soaking in the sunlight like she’s been stuck in a library all semester. The two in front are Mae-Lin, a fiercely intelligent young pre-law student, and Claire, the little one with the big dark eyes and a shy smile. Behind her are identical twin sisters with curly red hair, Lea and Carly, although which one is which, Brad has simply given up on remembering.

“Okay, ladies, it’s time for Safety Tips With Brad.” He sets his paddle across his knees. “You can take the helmets off between rapids if you want, but whenever we hit the action, helmets on tight. Rapids happen because there are rocks in the water. And we don’t _want_ you to fall out, but if you do, the helmet’s there to keep your brains from turning into jelly. And since you’re all fancypants college students, you’re gonna need to keep those brains nice and safe, yeah?”

“You said you’d tell us what to do if we fall out,” Claire pipes up, and Brad fixes her with a skeptical look.

“You’re that girl who reminds the teacher about the homework, aren’t you?”

Her mouth drops open, but before she can protest, Veronica cuts in. “Yes, she is. Don’t lie, Claire. You totally are.”

“Hey, it’s fine! It’s fine. Just listen up to Professor Brad here.” He clears his throat. “If you _do_ tumble out, don’t panic, don’t freak out. If you’re still close, I’ll try and yank you back into the raft, or I’ll stick out the paddle for you to grab. We’ve also got this throw rope –” he shows them the little coiled rope in a bag – “if you’re a little further.”

Claire nods slowly. “Okay.”

“But, if none of that works,” he continues cheerfully, ignoring her skeptical look, “you flip on your back and point your feet downstream. You’ve got a life jacket and a helmet to help you stay safe. If you can swim to the shore, do it. Look for smooth water. Swim away from rapids.”

Veronica nods slowly. “What if _you_ fall out of the raft?”

“You’ll just have to save me.”

“What if we don’t?” Ellie pipes up.

“Then you all got a real long walk back to the base, because I’m driving the bus today.”

* * *

About ten minutes into their pleasant downstream float, the four rafts pull over beside a massive boulder hanging over the water.

Brad pulls the raft into the shallows and sets down his paddle. “Here we have it, ladies. Jump Rock.”

Lea, or maybe it’s Carly, looks back at him. “What is it?”

“It’s a rock. You jump off it.”

Five of the girls clamber out of the raft, scurrying up the trail to join the line of people taking turns jumping, leaving Brad with just one other person in the boat.

He sits back on his seat, reaching for his water bottle. “Not jumping?”

Claire wrinkles her nose. “No thanks.”

“You sure?”

“Why would I jump off a perfectly good rock?”

“Why?” Brad splutters, waving his hands wide as if summoning the universe to help him answer. “Why? because it’s _there_ , that’s why.”

She fixes him with a long look, and he holds his breath, because there’s something in her dark eyes, some hint of impishness he _knows_ is in there. “Uh-huh.”

“You doubt me?”

She arches one perfectly-arched eyebrow at him. “I think you’re making things up.”

“Look, Clara –”

“ _Claire_.”

“Right.” Not so much with the nickname, then. Okay. “Claire. Sometimes ya gotta take that flying leap, right? Gotta just go for it. Just trust the water’s gonna catch you, throw yourself over the edge, and live a little.”

Claire folds her arms. She still looks skeptical, but he can see the hint of a smile there. “A flying leap, huh?”

“Exactly.”

She purses her lips. She has a pretty mouth, Brad thinks idly. Wait. Why is he looking at her mouth?

_Stop looking at her mouth._

“I think you’re full of shit.”

He gives her his most angelic smile. “You might be right.”

* * *

Thanks to the rain recently, they’ve got a few Class III rapids that are verging on pretty healthy Class IV today. Brad’s not too worried, though. So far, Raft Three – the girls have dubbed themselves “Harvard Crew,” which he thinks is pretty fucking great – has been doing just fine. They sail through the first two rapids like a machine. It’s a great day.

Then they hit Widowmaker.

It’s actually Brad’s favorite set of rapids on the river; it’s basically three sets of closely-connected rapids, each one amping up in intensity, and it’s got some giant dips and dives to make an exciting ride.

“All right, Harvard Crew.” The roar of the waters and the mist over the rocks ahead clues them in to what’s coming, and he can see determination on their faces. “Stay sharp, okay?”

The current picks up, he can feel the raft slip into the motion of the water, and he takes a deep breath. “All right, ladies! Forward paddle! Dig in!”

The girls spring into action, digging into the rushing waters, and Brad braces his feet inside the edges of the raft as they fly forward into the rapids. The current sweeps them sharply across the river and he digs his paddle down as a rudder, aiming them so they hit the first rapid head-on.

The raft pitches down sharply, landing them splat in the low point of the rapid, and he can see the nose filling with water as the force throws them back up. Half the girls are just paddling air right now, yelling over the roar of the water, and he hears a startled shriek, sees a flash of life-vest-orange, and watches as Claire’s thrown out of the raft, tumbling headfirst into the churning whitewater.

 _Fuck_. He really thought this was gonna be a good run.

But shit’s officially real, so he digs his oar into the water sharply, trying to swerve the boat into the fast current, taking them downstream as swiftly as possible. Gotta catch her before she gets too close to the hydraulics at the end, or she could get trapped in the current.

He lands the raft safely near the bank, tucked up against a boulder, sets down his paddle, and slides into the water. Claire’s still in the first stretch of rapids, and this is a long one, a series of rapids that get progressively rougher. She’s got one hand on a log, scrabbling for a grip, but that’s not gonna hold for long.

Brad sprints down the bank, racing across a stretch of rocks to outpace her. The guide from another raft has thrown out a rope, and he can see Claire reaching for it, but the current sucks her back under the water and she’s quickly out of reach. Damn.

So he takes a running leap, as far out into the water as he can, and lands in the middle of the river, water up to his shoulders. He braces himself against the current, digging his feet into the river bottom as strongly as he can, and as Claire floats by, he gets one hand under the collar of her life jacket, yanking hard to drag her back towards him.

She struggles against him for just a second, then seems to realize what’s going on, and lets out a shaky breath. Brad wraps one arm around her waist; he’s not about to let her float away. “You okay?”

Claire coughs, nodding weakly, wrapping herself around him.

“Okay, I want you to just hang onto me nice and tight, okay? Real tight, don’t let go. We’re gonna head over to the bank.”

She nods again, and he shifts her onto his back, waiting until he can feel her arms tightly around his neck before he starts wading through the strong current. It’s slow going, but finally he maneuvers his way out of deep water, emerging into the smoother water of the shallows.

He stoops to let her slide off his back, and she grabs hold of his arm as he eases her onto one of the smooth, flat stones next to the river. She slumps over, bent nearly in half, coughing and spluttering and spitting out water, but she’s definitely breathing, which is a good sign.

Brad settles for patting her on the shoulder. “You okay? Breathing all right?”

“I think so,” she manages, gasping for breath. “Oh my God, the river tastes terrible.”

“Yeah, we normally try not to drink it.”

She unclips her helmet, sighing as she pulls it off and splashes water on her face. Soft wisps of dark hair are plastered to her neck, curling softly around her cheeks, and look, Brad’s not trying to be creepy, he’s not, but he can’t help the fact that she’s really pretty, okay? That’s not his fault.

She flexes her ankle and winces, and Brad’s on it immediately. “Hurts?”

She looks like she’s going to deny it, but she seems to decide it’s not worth the effort. “A little.”

“Let me take a look, yeah?”

She nods, leaning back on her slim wrists with a sigh. Brad unstraps the Velcro on her sandal, sets it aside, and looks at her ankle, turning her foot over gently.

Her ankle is so delicate in his big hands, so small, and his body is starting to feel some ways he really has no business feeling about a paying client he just pulled out of the water like any good raft guide.

 _Do your fucking job, Leone_.

“Does that hurt?” He flexes her ankle slowly, and she shakes her head, even though they both know yeah, it hurts.

“It’s not bad. Just sore. I think I hit a rock somewhere on the way.”

“Well, it ain’t broken. We got a first aid kit back in the boat, so I can get you wrapped up and grab an ice pack to keep the swelling down.”

She nods. “It’s probably just twisted. Lea’s pre-med, she can take a look at it.”

“Okay.” He’ll give her that – she just got thrown out of a raft and sucked through a Class IV rapids, and she’s taking it pretty well in stride. “You’re a champ, Claire.”

She huffs out a soft laugh. “Thanks.”

“Seriously! You swam through Widowmaker! Nothing to sneeze at.”

“I’ll make sure to put it on my resumé.”

Her eyes are sparkling, and he nudges her shoulder. “That’s the spirit!”

He can see that she’s trying not to smile, she’s really not, but it escapes anyway, and God, if she isn’t just the cutest thing.

She puts her sandal back on but when she tries putting weight on the foot, she makes a face, and Brad decides, well, let’s try something different. “You know what? Let’s keep you off that ankle for the moment, okay?”

She blinks, clearly not sure where he’s going with this. “Okay?”

“Hold on, let me –”

Brad gets one arm behind her back, the other under her knees, and after a moment’s hesitation, she leans into him, gripping one hand on the front of his life vest.

“Upsy-daisy!” he announces cheerfully, picking her up and cradling her carefully against his chest. She’s so _small_ compared to him, petite and delicate, and fucking hell, this is turning into a religious experience he wasn’t expecting.

“Hey Brad?”

He makes the mistake of looking down at her, and her face is right there, so close to his, and her skin is soft against him and he’s thinking a lot of things he can’t be thinking. “Uh, yeah?”

“Thanks for saving me.”

“Just doin’ my job, lady.” He makes his way carefully back towards the raft. “You know, this isn’t exactly what I meant when I said ‘take a flying leap.’”

That earns him something approaching a glare, but between the helmet, the life jacket, and the fact that she’s a tiny little thing he’s carrying like she’s a fucking princess, it’s still nothing but _cute_.

As he rounds the corner and they see the raft with all the other girls, Claire lets out a breath, and the other girls are delighted.

“Claire! You’re alive!” Ellie claps excitedly. “Mae-Lin got your paddle, too. It was floating by.”

“Thanks,” she calls.

“No serious issues!” Brad announces, setting her down carefully in the raft. “Wanna wrap up her ankle before we head off again, but as far as Claire’s concerned, she made the river her bitch.”

Claire makes a face at that, but her friends laugh, patting her shoulder and congratulating her, and as Lea digs through the first aid kit and wraps up her ankle (technically Brad’s supposed to do it, but Lea insists, so he’s not going to press the issue), Ellie digs out the waterproof camera she’s been snapping pictures with all morning.

Claire protests, but Ellie shushes her. “I’m capturing the moment, Claire.”

“ _This_ is a moment?” Claire winces as Lea finishes up with her ankle.

“Are you kidding? You fell out of the raft and narrowly avoided certain death.”

“I don’t think I would have actually –”

“This is _all_ a moment.”

* * *

Before he bids them farewell that afternoon, Brad’s raft insists on getting a picture with him. They pose in front of the rickety old bus, all six of them crowded around him in a giant, multi-armed hug, and he pretends not to hear Jared, who walks by and smirks and mutters something about _Brad’s new harem_.

* * *

Raft guides can’t drink twenty-four hours before a trip, but Brad and Jared both have tomorrow off, so they decide to take the opportunity to head into town for beer and burgers. They end up at a nice, cozy little sports bar in the middle of the main street. Good food, good local beers, and the pool table’s free, so Brad’s looking forward to earning a little more. Jared sucks at pool but refuses to admit it. This works out well for Brad.

They’re just finishing up one round, and Brad’s ten bucks richer, when the bartender leans across the counter. “Hey, guys. You want a fresh round? Table over there asked if they can buy you a drink.”

Brad blinks. “Us? Seriously?”

Jared turns to follow the bartender’s gaze, and he laughs, patting Brad’s shoulder. “Holy shit, Brad, look. Ain’t that your boat? From this morning?”

Brad follows his friend’s gaze, and sure enough, there’s a cluster of young women sitting at a table across the room, watching him and Jared with amused expressions. And even from here, he can see that this is a more dressed-up version of the group he had on the river this today.

They’re all pretty – not that they weren’t before – but this is obviously a real girls’ night, and their hair is glossy and they’re all sun-kissed and made up and dressed well.

 _Damn_.

And Brad really isn’t trying to stare, he’s not, but then one of the girls sits back and he catches a glimpse of Claire on the other side of the table. She’s talking to someone, but then her eyes meet his, and the prettiest pink blush stains her cheeks.

“Yeah, bud. That’s them.” Brad stands up a little taller. No particular reason. He just does.

“Raft full of fucking supermodels, huh?” Jared shakes his head. “Some people have all the luck.”

Brad suddenly wishes he’d worn a nicer shirt.

* * *

Ellie was the first one to notice the raft guides shooting pool across the bar, and she was the one who decided it was time to buy them drinks.

As their waitress goes back to the bar to pass the message along to the bartender, Ellie smiles triumphantly. “All the raft guides were cute, but we definitely got the hottest one.”

“Yeah, dream on,” Carly sighs. “I think we all know he’s already picked his favorite.”

Claire frowns. “What do you mean?”

One by one, every other girl at the table turns to look at her.

_Oh._

“You – no, guys, no, that’s not –”

“He saved your life,” Mae-Lin points out seriously. “I mean, kind of. You probably weren’t actually going to die. But still.”

“That’s his job. It’s _literally_ his job.”

“What about him carrying you back to the raft?” Lea points out. “All cradled against his chest like a baby lamb. He’s got strong arms, doesn’t he?”

“He was just making sure my ankle wasn’t hurt.” Claire has the sinking feeling that no one is buying this.

(Worse: she’s fairly sure even _she_ isn’t convinced.)

“But you’re totally into him.” Ellie sounds so sure of herself.

“I don’t really like his hair.” Okay. She’s found a legitimate complaint. They’re going to stop bothering her now, right? “It’s not my thing.”

“His _hair?”_ Ellie rolls her eyes. “Oh my God, Claire, look at his _body_ , who cares about his hair?”

Claire shrugs. “I don’t like the man-bun.”

“So leave the lights off,” Carly mutters. “Or just let him hit it from behind.”

“Carly!”

“You know,” Lea murmurs, grinning, “Claire, you _could_ just sleep with him and get it out of your system.”

“ _What?”_

“Come on, Claire!” Mae-Lin laughs. “It’s not like you’re ever going to see him again.”

 _Goddam it._ “We’re not talking about this.”

“Oh, come on,” Ellie cuts in. “He’s been looking at you like that all day.”

“Like what?” She can hear the defensive note in her voice, but she also can’t help it. Because she’s feeling defensive.

“Like the river’s not the only way he wants to see you get wet.” Claire’s jaw drops, but Ellie’s unrepentant. “Look, Claire. Just calling it like I see it.”

Veronica leans over to tug at her shoe, and Claire sees: Brad’s looking right at her. His eyes are fiercely, intensely blue, and the look on his face –

She catches her breath, her face gets hot, and she has the sinking feeling that maybe everyone else has been completely right, this whole time.

* * *

Ellie’s the designated group extrovert, so under her leadership, Raft Three ends up joining the guys over at the bar. Brad introduces his friend Jared, one of the other guides. Jared’s cute.

Brad is…beyond cute.

Claire settles on a stool to make up for being the shortest person there, and to her surprise, Brad seems to gravitate right to her, leaning on one elbow on the bar.

“How’s the foot?”

She follows his gaze, looking down at her foot. “Actually, not bad. Lea wrapped it up again, but it feels much better.” She rolls her ankle experimentally.

“Glad to hear it.” He takes a long drink of his beer. “I think your pals there are challenging me and Jared to pool.”

She can’t help herself. “Jared and _me_.”

“Yeah, that’s what I said.” He grins. “You playing?”

“No, I’m no good at pool. Is it Ellie and Mae-Lin?”

“I think so.”

“Uh-huh.” Okay. Yeah. Ellie and Mae-Lin are _devastatingly_ good at pool. They play every week to pick up spending money. Ellie once said it was easier and just as lucrative as getting a job, and Claire’s pretty sure she was only partially joking.

“Well, if you’re not playing, and I bet you’re gonna be cheering for your girlfriends anyway,” he continues cheerfully, “would you at least be willing to guard my beer? Hate for someone to steal it, y’know?”

Claire bites her lip, trying not to smile, because there’s no earthly reason she should find that as charming as she does. “It’s the least I can do.”

He flashes her a smile, and oh come _on_ , how is she supposed to concentrate on anything else when he’s just this handsome? “Aww, Claire. You’re my hero.”

He sets down his beer on the counter beside her, and it’s not until he’s back at the table, chatting with Jared, that Claire remembers she doesn’t really like his hair.

* * *

So Claire ends up perched on the barstool, watching Mae-Lin and Ellie absolutely demolish the guys at pool, although neither Brad nor Jared looks unhappy about it.

The whole trip was Ellie’s idea. They’re all determined, hardworking women, and Ellie was right about fresh air, adventure, and a change of pace being the perfect antidote to the stress of college life. It’s the first time in recent memory she’s spent more than twenty-four hours away from her computer, and she feels amazing.

Brad leans over to line up a shot, and she’s not _trying_ to stare at his ass. She’s really not. She’s certainly not enjoying the view. She doesn’t like the way these jeans fit him.

But when she drags her eyes away from his ass, then she’s looking at his arms. Even under that soft t-shirt, she can see the flex of his biceps, the play of muscle in his brawny shoulders. She knows exactly how strong those arms are. He picked her up and carried her like it was _nothing_ , like he was barely even trying. And those hands, such big hands, those long fingers –

Claire looks down at her glass, trying to calm her racing heart. This is everyone else’s fault. She wasn’t nearly this unhinged before everyone else started hinting that she needs to jump his bones. That’s why she’s thinking about it. It’s not like she _wants_ –

“Hey, Claire.”

Claire blinks, looking up to find Ellie leaning on the pool table, looking downright smug. Like she knows exactly where Claire’s mind has been.

“Yeah?”

Ellie’s not drunk. But she is buzzed. And giggly. And that might actually be more dangerous. “I bet you fifty bucks you won’t kiss Brad.”

Ellie wanders off to grab a glass of water, leaving Claire blushing and cringing and contemplating murder, because there’s no way Brad didn’t hear that.

But when she steals a glance at him, he looks more startled than anything. He looks back at her, and his ears are red, but the he seems to take it in stride.

“Well, Claire, you wanna win fifty bucks?” He shrugs. “I’m game if you are.”

“You – uh –”

_(It’s not like you’re ever going to see him again.)_

Claire takes a deep breath. “Hey, Ellie. Ellie!”

Ellie looks up from her glass. “Hmm?”

“Here.”

Before she can talk herself out of it, Claire tugs Brad closer and presses a quick kiss to his lips.

It’s not a great kiss.

It’s really just a peck, sudden and unprepared and not-particularly-romantic, but the shriek Ellie lets out more than makes up for it. Claire winces. “Too loud, Ellie. Way too loud.”

“ _Girl_.” Ellie shakes her head, digging through her purse. “Get it. _Get. It._ ”

Claire blushes hotly, because Brad’s watching this entire exchange with noticeable amusement, but then Ellie shoves a few bills into Claire’s hand. “There you go. You earned it.”

She stares at the money in her hand, and finally she shuffles the bills apart, holding out half of it. “Brad. Brad, here.”

He looks down at the money. “What? Nah, c’mon. That’s for you.”

“I mean it.” Claire shrugs, hoping she looks as casual as she absolutely doesn’t feel. “It was a team effort. You earned it.”

“Hey, well, if you mean it.” He takes the money, shooting her a crooked grin. “Thanks.”

“No problem.”

He slides the money into his back pocket, and Claire can’t help but watch. She’s not over these jeans. They look good on him.

(They’d look better off him.)

He turns back to the pool table, groaning loudly as Jared biffs yet another shot, and Claire bites her tongue. She wishes she knew how to _do_ this, how to tease and flirt the way her friends seem to have been born understanding. It feels like a language barrier. She knows what she wants – at least, her body knows what it wants, right now – but she just doesn’t know how to get there. She doesn’t know what collection of nouns and verbs and adjectives and prepositions are direct enough to express herself, but diffuse enough to tease.

She’s smart. She knows she’s smart. But right now, she just feels clumsy.

* * *

It’s late by the time the girls decide to head back to their hotel. Between the early morning, the long day of rafting, and dinner and beer, they’re all feeling a little sleepy, and they’re driving back to Massachusetts tomorrow. The rest of the group’s on the way out, but Claire stops in the ladies’ room, promising her friends she’ll be quick.

As she walks out of the bathroom into the narrow little hallway, pausing to check her bag for her wallet and lip balm, she hears him.

“Claire?”

She turns to see Brad behind her, hands in his pockets, and maybe it’s just the adrenaline of the evening or maybe it’s the alcohol warming her from the inside out but Claire can’t quite catch her breath. He’s so _tall_. And he’s big and strong and those arms are incredible and he’s got big hands and the bluest _eyes_ she’s ever seen –

She swallows. “Yeah?”

_(Sometimes ya gotta take that flying leap, right? Gotta just go for it.)_

“You, uh – I –”

He stops like he’s run out of words, and her heart is pounding in her ears, and then his gaze falls to her mouth and she takes a breath and then she’s reaching for him and he’s taking a step towards her and she’s kissing him before she can breathe.

Her back hits the wall behind her and she shivers, clutching desperately at the soft, worn fabric of his t-shirt. His hands are on her hips, pulling her up onto her toes. God, he’s just so _tall_.

His tongue is heavy in her mouth, and then his thigh presses between her legs, tight and hot and putting pressure right where she wants it. Her whole body is on fire. She’s never, ever felt like this before, so hot and dizzy and out of control and _desperate_.

It’s too much but she can’t stop. She buries her hands in his hair, tugging him down, and she just can’t stop kissing him. It’s deep and wet and _dirty_ and her toes are curling and the pressure of his thigh tucked between her legs has her wondering if she could just push him into the nearest bathroom and flip the latch and climb onto his lap and –

“Claire! Claire, where are you? We’re leaving!”

 _Oh shit_.

Ellie’s voice hits her like a splash of icewater. If her friends see her like this, she’ll never, ever hear the end of it.

She plants her small hands on his shoulders, pushing him far enough away to slip out of his arms, and she runs out of the hallway, out into the bar, and then she’s out the door with her friends before she can even look back.

* * *

She’s not an impulsive person. Never has been.

She doesn’t tell her friends, or anyone, what happened in the hallway. Or, more accurately, what was about thirty seconds away from happening.

Just tucks it into her memories, filed proudly under _Flying Leap._ Even Claire Saffitz can do something reckless, it turns out.

And if she occasionally shuts her eyes and thinks about the tall, rugged, sexy raft guide with strong arms and hair she doesn’t like during certain…private…moments, well.

That’s her business, isn’t it?

* * *

_Manhattan, 2013_

Claire has a job.

A _real_ job, the kind with benefits, the kind she’s been hoping for. She gets to cook and write, the two things she loves most in the world, and who know her master’s thesis would actually be something useful she can include in a job application?

(Not that Bon Appétit publishes a lot of articles about the socio-political ramifications of cookbooks in 17th century England. But still. It didn’t hurt, having a published article under her belt.)

The personnel manager shows her to her new desk, where she sets down her laptop and notebook, and one of the food editors, Carla, offers to give her an in-depth tour of the kitchens.

* * *

They’re halfway through the kitchen, and Carla’s explaining the processes for regular orders, specialty orders, and one-off orders, when the door behind them, and Carla stops, mid-sentence. “Oh, and this is Brad Leone, another one of the kitchen staff.”

She turns around, taking a breath to say _Hi, I’m Claire_ for about the twentieth time today, but then she sees who’s standing there, and the breath escapes her.

Holy _shit_.

It’s been five years, but there’s no way she could mistake those bright blue eyes, that easy grin, that incredible scruff. The hair pulled back.

Those arms.

The memory comes flooding back, bright and vivid as if it were yesterday. The heat of his mouth, and pressure of his hands on her thighs, the wall against her back, and now she’s standing in the middle of Manhattan in a test kitchen for a food magazine and she definitely wasn’t expecting this to happen.

He’s looking at her curiously, his brow furrowed like he’s trying to figure out how she looks so familiar, and then she can see the moment he remembers.

His eyes go wide, his jaw slack, and he takes a deep breath. “Holy shit. _Claire?”_

She finally finds her voice.

“Hey.”

“Uh, guys?” Carla folds her arms, watching with amused curiosity. “I take it you two have met?”

“Yeah, we have.” Claire lets out a breath. “Brad saved my life once.”

Judging from the shock on Carla’s face, that’s not what she was expecting to hear.

“He _what_ now?”

Brad laughs at that, full and hearty, and it’s been years and Paris and Montreal but wow, the butterflies seem to have come right back. “Remember I said I was a raft guide one summer? Claire was on one of my rafts. She fell out.”

Carla seems utterly delighted, chattering on about what a small world it is, and Claire just looks at Brad. He’s watching her with a look she can’t quite read, some kind of a cross between bewilderment and who-even-knows, and he finally wipes his hands on his apron, extending one to her. “Welcome to the kitchen, Claire.”

She takes it, and of course her tiny hand is dwarfed by his, his handshake warm and firm and open.

“Thanks.”

Carla leads her on, and Claire flips straight back into listening mode, because she’s an adult and she’s responsible and she’s here to learn her new job and _how the hell is this possible?_

* * *

She’s at her desk the next morning, trying to make sense of the insurance documents before she signs everything and sends it back to HR, when she hears footsteps pausing nearby, and looks up to find Brad there.

“Good morning.”

“Hey.” He shoots her an easy grin, tugging off his cap and running his fingers through his wild hair. “Hey, I know you were busy yesterday, but I just wanted to – to make sure we’re cool, right? I figured you didn’t want Carla to know, y’know. Everything.”

“Yeah.” Claire lets out a soft breath. That’s a very tidy was of summing up _We almost had very reckless sex that one time_. “I mean, rafting is one thing, but, uh –”

“Right, right.” He raises one hand, waving it casually. “Don’t worry, okay? We’re good.”

“Yeah. We’re good.”

“Great.” He nods. He has such a great smile, she thinks idly. So easy, like it’s just his natural expression. “Hey, if you need, I dunno, whatever, I’m around, okay? You got any questions, just ask.”

“Thanks.”

He leaves, and Claire spends a moment just sitting, thinking quietly, before going back to her paperwork.

Huh.

She’d thought about him a few times – imagined what the sex would have been like, sure.

But she’d never in a million years thought they might end up becoming friends _._

* * *

The first week at a new job is always hectic, and Claire feels like she just barely blinks and it’s Friday.

But she hits _save_ on the computer, lets out a deep breath. Okay. Okay. First week. She’s not fired. She’s alive. The building’s not on fire. It’s good.

She ends up chatting with Carla and a few of the other editors, and someone – Alison? Claire needs to really make sure she knows all these names – turns to Claire. “Hey, we’re all going to get dinner tonight. You should come.”

“Sure.” Claire feels utter relief: apparently, she has been judged cool enough to hang out outside of work. “Sounds good.”

She grabs her jacket and bag and follows the little group as they leave the offices. They pause in the hallway outside the kitchen, and oh hello, Brad’s standing there, backpack over one shoulder. “Heya, folks!” He adjusts his cap. “We heading out?”

“Yeah, we’re gonna stop for drinks on the way to Manuel’s,” Carla explains. ‘’Is Sophie coming?”

“Yeah, she’ll meet us there.”

“Sophie?” Claire’s still trying to remember everyone’s name in the office.

“My girlfriend,” Brad explains cheerfully.

* * *

Claire knows exactly what kind of woman who ends up with someone like Brad. Someone like Ellie. The Brads of the world end up with women who are bright and bubbly and cheerful and friendly and beautiful and carefree.

So it’s a massive shock when, a few minutes after they sit down for drinks, they’re joined by a petite brunette with glasses and big green eyes and a soft smile. Her hair is neatly pinned up, she’s wearing a soft blouse and pencil skirt and simple black pumps, and Claire has to remind herself to shut her mouth.

This isn’t what she expected.

“Sophie, hey, this is Claire,” Brad explains, kissing his girlfriend on the cheek and gesturing at her across the table. “She just started at BA.”

“Hi, Claire.” Sophie’s handshake is firm and sure. “Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise.” Claire pauses, noticing the ring Sophie’s wearing. “Wait, is that – did you go to Yale?”

“Hmm?” Sophie looks down. “Oh, yeah. I did.”

“Cool, huh?” Brad grins, resting an arm around the back of Sophie’s chair.

Sophie takes a slow sip of her drink. “Did you?”

“Oh, no. I went to Harvard.”

“ _Ohhh._ Okay.”

Sophie nods slowly, a little smile on her lips, and Brad looks back and forth between them. “What does that mean?”

“It means we’re sworn enemies,” Sophie explains calmly. “That’s just how it works.”

* * *

Drinks are pleasant.

Sophie’s quieter than Claire had expected.

Looking back, she probably shouldn’t have assumed his girlfriend would just be Brad with long hair, someone bright and outgoing and extroverted.

Sophie sips bourbon. Slowly. Apparently she works in collections for one of the big museums on the Upper West Side; she studied history, and then did a degree in museum studies at the University of London. She seems content to listen most of the time, propping her chin on one hand, watching with bright, perceptive eyes as Brad tells stories and Carla calls him on his bullshit and everyone laughs.

But, Claire notices, he keeps an eye on Sophie. Pauses, mid-ramble, to ask her for some detail he’s forgetting. Defers to her opinion when he’s trying to decide something. Asks how the bourbon is.

When Sophie teases Brad about his hair being a mess, he just grins, sitting back in his seat. “Yeah, yeah. Laugh it up, Four-Eyes.”

Claire’s jaw drops, but Sophie just laughs, adjusting her glasses carefully. “Glasses make you smart, Brad. That’s just science.”

He mock-scowls at her. “They make you look a little bit nerdy, babe.”

She shrugs. “I _am_ a little bit nerdy.”

Claire takes a deep breath and sips her white wine, because the words feel entirely too familiar.

* * *

After a delicious dinner at a little Spanish restaurant near the bar, Sophie and Brad leave early.

Sophie apologizes, explaining she’s had a long week of work, and after digging through archives and talking with donors all day, her brain is fried. “Sorry, everyone. But thanks for the invitation. This was nice.”

Carla smiles fondly. “Have a good night, hon.”

“Thanks. Claire, it was nice to meet you.”

Sophie waves, Claire waves back. Brad takes Sophie’s briefcase for her and slings it over his shoulder, and his hand hovers gently at her back as they walk out.

* * *

Later that night, Claire climbs the stairs out of the subway, hurrying down the street to her quiet little apartment, trying not to think about the fact that Brad Leone is happily dating a petite, dark-haired Ivy League alumna who reminds her more than a little bit of herself.

* * *

Working at _Bon Appétit_ keeps Claire busy. Busier than busy. Between recipe testing, writing, editing, re-editing, tweaking, re-writing, and re-re-editing, she puts in long days, determined not to fall behind.

She’s at her desk one evening, staring at the flashing cursor like it’s insulting her. This project is due tomorrow, and she absolutely refuses to go home until she’s happy with it. She’ll invariably find something to fix tomorrow. But she won’t be able to relax until it’s better than it is right now.

Claire digs her fingers into her temples, sighing heavily, wondering if the pattern of her sentences in the introductory paragraph is too artificially repetitive. Does she need to start deploying semicolons?

“Claire? You still here?”

She looks up, startled, to find Brad leaning against the canvas-covered wall of her cubicle.

“Hey. Yeah, just –” she waves a hand at her computer – “almost done.”

“Pretty late,” he says, and she must be more tired than she thought, because she can’t help noticing how _soft_ his face is. “You okay?”

She nods. “Fine. Just tired.”

“Yeah, you been pulling some late nights recently.” He shifts his backpack to the other shoulder. “You stop for dinner yet? Can’t think on an empty stomach, ya know.”

Claire lets out a soft huff. “I’ll get there.”

“Look, Claire –” he seems to hesitate for a second before continuing – “You know you don’t have to wear yourself out, right? Everyone here respects you. You don’t have to work yourself to fuckin’ death.”

“I know, I know, I just –” She sighs, raking her fingers through her hair in frustration. “I want to get it _right_.”

“Of course you do. You’re a perfectionist.”

She tries to laugh. She’s pretty sure it comes out as a groan. “When did you notice?”

“When you asked what to do if you fell out of the raft.”

It takes the breath out of her, and for a moment, she’s twenty-one again, energetic and relatively carefree, wind ruffling her hair under a faded plastic helmet as a hot young raft guide with muscular biceps calls her _Carrie_.

He seems oblivious to her moment; he’s just watching her with that easy smile. And God, she loves her work and her job but she’s exhausted and lonely and more than anything right now she just wants him to _hug_ her.

But she’s an adult. And she can take care of herself. So Claire takes a deep breath and sits up straighter in her chair.

Brad tugs his cap down. “You sure you’re okay?”

Claire nods slowly. “I’m good.”

“Okay. Have a good night, Claire.”

“See you tomorrow.”

* * *

Brad doesn’t notice it until Carla says something.

He and Carla are taking a break one afternoon, just talking about nothing in particular over the ciabatta she just finished making. The bread’s delicious, and he tells her so.

“Hey, thanks.” Carla pulls apart a piece, studying the texture. “Claire was talking about a recipe she learned in Paris. I figured I’d give it a shot.”

“Awesome.” Brad brushes crumbs off his hands. “Claire’s great, ain’t she?”

Carla nods. “She reminds me of Sophie.”

Well, _that_ knocks him right the hell over.

“What?”

Carla looks at him like he’s daft. “Seriously? You haven’t noticed?”

“I – no, I didn’t even think about it.”

“Brad, honey. They’re both pretty and smart and just a little bit of a perfectionist –”

“- a _lot_ bit –”

“- and they both sass you from here to anywhere,” Carla finishes. “It’s kind of endearing.”

“Huh.”

The conversation meanders again, and it’s later, stacking bulk flour and rice and sugar, that Brad thinks about it. _Really_ thinks about it.

(It’s not like he ever managed to forget those frantic thirty seconds up against the wall in a bar, after all.)

But it’s nothing. They’re just friends now.

* * *

Claire only hears part of it in passing.

She’s on her way out of the kitchen when she hears two of the kitchen assistants chatting over the dishes they’re unloading.

“Brad’s been here late recently,” Grace comments, stretching to put away a stack of dishes. “He’s working more evening hours.”

“Of course he is.” Hayden pauses, plates in his hands. “I heard he broke up with his girlfriend.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.” Hayden shrugs, carefully sliding the plates onto a shelf. “She seemed nice.”

“Well, he’s not acting like he’s heartbroken over it,” Grace points out. “Maybe it just wasn’t working out.”

“Guess not.”

The two of them keep unloading dishes, and Claire ducks out towards the elevators, wondering what the story is.

* * *

The kitchen staff at Bon Appétit is kind of like a semi-permeable membrane. Stories pass through most of the time, but the rate of transmission is directly linked to scope.

(It’s not the best analogy.)

Sophie getting a job offer in London would definitely be dramatic, but the story is less cinematic than it might seem. They’d only been dating for a few months, and they got along well, but after a talk, they’d agreed that neither of them felt strongly enough to dig in on a trans-Atlantic relationship. It was a perfectly friendly breakup. Nothing for the history books.

Because of the lack of drama, Brad knows, it takes a week or so for everyone to realize that he’s single and technically eligible to mingle.

He’s unpacking produce in the walk-in one day when the door opens It’s Carla. “Oh, hey, Brad.”

“Hey.” He frowns at the box. “Look at this mess. Someone doesn’t understand the difference between bok choi and baby bok choi? Fuckin’ idiots, Carla.”

“Yeah, it’s tough all over,” she says dryly. “Hey, heard about you and Sophie. Sorry.”

“It’s okay.” He shrugs. “We talked it over. We’re cool.”

“Glad to hear it.” Carla pauses, and for a second he could swear she’s about to say something more, but then she shakes her head, wiping her hands on her apron. “Well, I just came in to get my dough, so if I can just scoot past you –”

* * *

It’s not until a few days later that Brad starts putting pieces together.

Carla’s one of his favorite people here at BA. They started working more or less at the same time; she’s already had a hell of a career, and she’s always been supportive and caring, as much a friend as a coworker.

She’s also not afraid to speak her mind. Which is why he found it so strange that she obviously bit something back when she talked to him about his breakup with Sophie.

It should probably embarrass him, how long it takes him to remember that casual, innocent conversation they had once when Claire started working at BA.

_(She reminds me of Sophie.)_

He’d never stopped to wonder why Claire seems so easy to work with. It wasn’t a big deal; he met her in the course of one of his million summer jobs, she seemed interesting then, and it’s not like he hasn’t worked with pretty women before.

But suddenly he finds himself at his sink, pretending to sharpen knives, while he’s actually just turning things over and over in his mind, trying to figure it all out.

And then Claire looks up at him from her kneading, curious, and those big dark eyes just knock him over.

She cocks her head curiously _(What?)_ and Brad just shrugs _(Nothing)_.

She smiles that little smile at him, soft and contained, her mouth curved like a delicate half-moon, and for the millionth time, Brad’s transfixed by her lips, soft and rosy.

He wonders idly if they’re as soft now as they were five years ago.

(And he’s pretty sure he’s figured it out.)

* * *

The higher-ups at Condé Nast know how to throw a holiday party.

A light dusting of December snow swirls outside the renovated dancehall from the 1940s, and inside, it’s all the sparkle of delicate twinkle lights and glassware and candles, and everything – and everyone – is like a level more beautiful than usual.

Brad’s in the middle of swapping stories with one of the tech guys from the website when _she_ walks in, and the conversation immediately moves to the back of his mind.

Her hair is soft and glossy, tumbled over her shoulders, and she’s wearing this soft, silky-looking black dress with some kind of silver design swirled across it. It hugs her curves, nips in at her waist, leaves her shoulders bare, and even with her heels she’s still small and delicate and oh wait, he needs to keep breathing, doesn’t he?

She seems to sense something, her brow furrowed curiously, and then she looks up and her eyes meet his.

The prettiest, softest blush colors her cheeks, her lips curving up into a smile. Brad grins back, hoping he doesn’t look as gobsmacked as he feels.

He probably does.

Ah, well.

She takes a glass of champagne from a waiter and comes over to join him, despite the fact that half the Bon Appétit staff are gathered on the other side of the ballroom and she has to walk past them.

Brad’s fairly sure he’s never gonna stop smiling, as long as she’s looking at him like this.

The tech guy is talking to someone else about the finer philosophical points of ‘turn it off and turn it back on again,’ so Brad doesn’t feel remotely guilty about turning all his attention to Claire. “Well, well! Hey, Claire.”

“Hi.”

“You look gorgeous,” he says, because he’s not suave at all. And it’s the truth.

But it must hit the right note, because her smile takes on a bashful tone. “Thanks.” She nudges him with her shoulder, even though it only hits him halfway up his bicep. “You look pretty handsome yourself.”

“Claire! Brad!”

It’s Carla, and then Amiel shows up, and then they’re surrounded by other chefs and food editors, but Brad keeps his eyes on her, watching her worry her bottom lip between her teeth and steal glances back at him.

Because five years ago, he met the Claire who couldn’t keep her hands off him in the narrow, dimly-lit hallway of a bar somewhere in western Pennsylvania, and tonight he thinks maybe he’s seeing her again.

* * *

Work parties aren’t usually Claire’s thing, but she has to admit: this one is perfect. Great food, great champagne, and the music is the perfect balance between classical and techno that’s neither boring nor overly pretentious.

The different departments sort of cluster for most of the evening, so despite the clumsy advances of a fashion writer whose interest in her shoes crosses the line of ‘style’ and is starting to border on ‘foot fetish,’ Claire spends most of her time with the rest of the BA staff. Sure, they all see each other every day, but without aprons on, they all seem like upgraded versions of themselves.

She can’t possibly ignore the way Brad’s looking at her. And she doesn’t want to.

At one point, he offers to get her a fresh glass of champagne, and when he hands it to her and his fingers brush hers, she almost drops the glass at the sudden shock that runs through her.

* * *

(It was just a matter of time, she thinks later. From the moment she walked into that party in a dress she wanted him to see her in, she was kind of banking on this.)

Eventually, she doesn’t know how, but she just looks at him, he looks at her, and then he’s following her out of the crowded ballroom, down the hallway, into one of the empty dressing rooms of the old theater.

There’s a flush in her body she can’t ignore. She feels hyperaware, like the lightest brush of fingertips is going to set her on fire.

More than anything, though, it’s inevitable. It’s the way this was always going to be.

He shuts the door behind them, and she turns to face him. It’s not even the narrowest space, but he’s just so _big_ , and he’s right _there_ , and her heart stutters helplessly in her chest.

This feels familiar.

Claire licks her lips absently, and she doesn’t miss the way his eyes focus on her mouth. Her body feels hot all over, her skin buzzing, and she takes a shaky breath. “Brad?”

He’s looking at her like he wants to devour her. “You –”

“Please –”

“Yeah –”

“Uh-huh,” and then she’s pressing up on her toes and he’s tipping her face up to his and then they’re kissing and everything goes hot and bright all at once. And it’s so much better than the first time.

Kissing him is so _easy_.

It’s one kiss, then two, and then she buries her fingers in his soft curly hair and he presses her back against the wall, deepening the kiss, and there’s nothing else, just his body and his hands and his hot mouth on hers.

She’s vaguely, distantly aware of the click of the door, but it doesn’t really process in her mind until she hears a sharp gasp and “ _Oh!_ Oh. Sorry, kids.”

They both freeze, guilty, to find Carla leaning in the door, red wine in one hand, eyebrows as high as they’ll go.

“Carla –” For a single, eternal second, Claire actually wonders if there’s any way at all they could pretend this is something other than what it is.

(There’s not.)

But apart from looking surprised, Carla doesn’t seem fazed. She just waves her free hand at them. “Don’t worry, guys, just realized no one knew where you were. Don’t mind me!”

She ducks out, shutting the door behind her, and Claire lets out a groan, leaning forward to rest her head on his shoulder. “ _Oh._ ”

“Yeah.” But she can hear amusement in his voice even as he’s smoothing her hair back, and it makes her feel warm and giddy.

Because this was a _leap_.

“You know,” he points out, leaning in to press a lingering kiss to her forehead, “I think we put in our time here. No one’s gonna care if we sneak out.”

“You think so?”

“Oh, yeah. We can totally play hooky.” He shrugs. “If you want.”

_Take a flying leap, right, Brad?_

She takes a deep breath, stretches up on her toes to press a soft kiss to his mouth. God, he’s handsome.

“Come over,” she murmurs. “Please?”

* * *

They’re only just inside her little apartment, the door shutting behind them, when Brad’s tugging off her coat and unwinding her scarf so he can press soft kisses to her neck.

“Fuckin’ hell, Claire, this dress.” He nips softly at the line of her throat, dragging his stubble over her skin, and she shivers. “You wear this just to drive me crazy?”

“Uh-huh.” She doesn’t really have the brainpower to be coy right now. “Is it working?”

He growls into her skin, and then she lets out a surprised yelp as he sweeps her off her feet, cradling her against his chest like she’s no bigger than a doll. “Brad!”

“That’s all I got in terms of witty banter, Claire.” He shifts her carefully in his arms. “Now, where’s your bedroom?”

* * *

The next morning, she wakes up a willing prisoner in Brad’s arms.

She’s just drifting to the surface, curled up in the warmth of his body, and his big hand is rubbing slow, gentle, soothing circles on her back. Claire sighs contentedly. “ _Mmmmm_.”

“Heya, Claire.” His hand pauses on her back. “You awake?”

“No.”

_“Claaaaaaaire.”_

It doesn’t surprise her even a little bit that Brad’s a morning person.

She whines softly against his chest. “It’s too early. Go back to sleep.”

“I don’t wanna go back to sleep.”

 _“Brad.”_ She burrows against him. “My bed. My rules. Sleep now.”

“What if I make coffee?”

She cracks open an eye to find him grinning lazily at her. “Coffee?”

“And breakfast.” He can see he’s got her. “I make a mean omelet.”

* * *

He makes good coffee, and the omelet he tips onto her plate is possibly the most delicious thing she can remember eating.

Of course, the best part of all comes later, when they stack the dishes in the sink and she pushes him down onto the couch.

“Oh, _hello_.” He chuckles, although when she settles firmly in his lap, it turns into a groan. “Ooh, Claire. Thought you weren’t a morning person.”

“I’m not.” She rolls her hips into his, watching his eyes go dark. “But I might let you persuade me.”

* * *

_epilogue_

When Ellie’s phone buzzes, she’s surprised to see it’s a text from Claire Saffitz.

They’re still friends, of course, but it’s been almost a year since they last talked. Claire’s in New York, Ellie’s in Chicago, and communication by now is more just an occasional call or email.

But it’s always good to hear from their old friend group, so Ellie quickly opens the text.

_Remember this guy?_

She scrolls down to find a picture of Claire and some guy. Cute guy. Big grin, bright blue eyes, messy, curly hair, scruffy –

Ellie stops. Stares with wide eyes.

She hurries to text back. _Is that our raft guide? from junior year??_

Claire’s response comes quickly.

_Yes. we’re dating. you can say I told you so._

Ellie laughs and sends one more reply.

_I would never. But you're welcome._


End file.
